Angels with Dirty Faces: Five Inspiring Stories. Casey Watson

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      I pushed the thought away. My focus was on Darby and Christmas and the business of making sure she had a sackful of presents to open on Christmas morning – an emergency payment was now winging its way into my bank account, and I intended to use most of it on the purchase of things she could unwrap and play with and be distracted by.

      This was no wanton extravagance on my part. The grandchildren invariably spent Christmas Day at ours, which was wonderful, and our tradition was for them to open most of their presents once the whole family were assembled. To bring Darby into that mix, with just a very modest number of presents, would only add to her sense of abandonment and distress.

      We’d had the odd child, of course, for whom Christmas had to be a non-day, so raw were the memories and the pain, but in Darby we had a child who would appear to gain a great deal emotionally from being in the bosom of a family – of being wrapped in the security blanket of family rituals and love.

      I therefore shopped speedily and well. And by the time Mike and I returned we were weighed down with riches; a baby doll, a little pram (she had been very covetous of Marley Mae’s buggy the previous day), a selection of doll’s clothes, a couple of new outfits for Darby herself, some books, a big jigsaw and, of course, the obligatory chocolate selection box. I was quite sure we’d spent a lot more than would be going into my account the following week, but it would be worth it, I knew, to see her face.

      We opted to leave it all in the car, planning to bring it in and wrap it once she was in bed, and headed up the path, gasping for coffee.

      ‘That’s odd,’ Mike observed as he singled out his door key on the car fob. ‘Very quiet in there, don’t you think?’

      I listened. It was. And the quiet was even more obvious when Mike slipped the key in the door and swung it open. ‘That’s some magic touch,’ he observed as he slung the keys down and shrugged his coat off.

      ‘Either that,’ I said, ‘or she’s got them playing sleeping logs.’

      It was neither. They were quiet because they were stuffing their faces with popcorn, watching another Christmas movie (Elf this time – just a glance and I could identify them all).

      Riley herself was sitting at the dining table flicking through a Christmas gift guide. She looked up then, and I noticed a strange expression on her face.

      ‘Everything okay?’ I asked her, as Mike and I went through the living room and into the dining room. ‘I see you’ve got them all settled down. And if that’s not a Christmas miracle, I don’t know what is!’

      Taking off my cardigan, I then noticed Levi glancing strangely at his mother. Riley gestured to the folding doors that we hardly ever used, but which could divide the dining and living areas into two proper rooms.

      ‘Come in here,’ she said quietly. ‘And close the doors for a minute.’

      I did so, a sinking feeling appearing from somewhere in the pit of my stomach. We both sat down. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, half not wanting to know.

      Riley glanced at both of us in turn. ‘I don’t even know where to start,’ she said. ‘Honestly.’

      ‘What’s happened, love?’ Mike asked her. ‘Just spit it out. Bloody hell, we’ve only been gone an hour. How bad can it be?’

      Nearer two, I thought distractedly. But that was of no consequence. Riley shook her head. ‘Bad, Dad, believe me.’

      I’m not usually one for regrets in life generally, and, by and large, the same applies to fostering. But sometimes, and thankfully these times have been few, I get this big whump of guilt about the choices Mike and I make, and how it might impact on our children and grandchildren. This was one such time. A moment when I wished I’d chosen differently. Said no. Because the last thing I wanted – in line with every parent everywhere – was to have my cherished grandchildren’s Christmas memories tainted. I wanted a Christmas without drama, or trauma, or sadness. I wanted not to have that evil eddying around in my house.

      But it seemed it was.

      ‘Levi and Jackson wanted to play in the garden,’ Riley told us. ‘So I made them put their coats on, gave them the football and let them out the back. And I am so glad I did. Which left Darby and Marley, with the toy box emptied out, and as they had no interest in playing out, I was happy to leave them to it while I went and rustled up some hot dogs for lunch.

      ‘Next thing I know, Darby’s come into the kitchen, asking if they could have some chocolate spread. Course, I thought nothing of it – I just said no, and that they’d be having their lunch soon, so, after a bit of a pout, off she trotted. And that was that. Or so I thought.’

      I felt the sinking feeling resolve itself into a cold, solid lump. We had elected to tell Riley so much, but only so much. Much less that we knew or ever wished to know.

      ‘And?’ Mike said.

      ‘Go on, love,’ I added. ‘Then what?’

      ‘Oh, Mum, it was awful,’ Riley went on. ‘It was vile. I didn’t hear anything for a bit, but then I heard Marley raising her voice – and sounding a bit weird, you know? So I went in to investigate. And there she was, standing in the middle of the living room with her leggings round her ankles and her hands in her pants.’ She lowered her voice to little more than a whisper. ‘And she’s thrusting her pelvis forward and there’s Darby, showing her how to do it, saying, “That’s it, pretend you’re licking chocolate spread off your twinkle and go ‘mmm’,” and all kinds of disgusting shit like that. Christ only knows what I’d have found if I’d given her the bloody Cadbury’s jar.’

      It wasn’t often that my daughter swore – it wasn’t her style. And not often that my husband’s face turned so pale. ‘You have got to be joking,’ Mike said, knowing she was doing no such thing. ‘No way, Riley!’ He turned to me. ‘Casey, we can’t have this, we can’t. Not with the kids.’

      I was still taking it in. ‘What did you do?’ I asked Riley.

      ‘I just picked Marley up, and told Darby that she wasn’t to play games like that. Which, of course, made no sense to her at all. She was just playing “growd ups” – no, sorry – playing for the “growd ups”.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Just what kind of terrible things did her parents do to her? I’m in shock, Mum. No, really. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Licking chocolate spread off her crotch? Jesus! Thank God the boys weren’t there, that’s all. I don’t know how I’d have even begun to explain it to them.’

      I felt awful. ‘Is Marley okay?’ I asked. ‘Did she say anything?’

      Riley shook her head, almost irritably. ‘No, she’s fine, Mum. Of course she is. She was fine right away. I just told her it was a stupid game and that little girls shouldn’t play it. And to be honest she seems to have forgotten all about it. As does your little mada –’ She checked herself. ‘As does Darby. But, Christ, Mum. What were they thinking, sending a child like that into a family?’

      And I knew Riley had a point. And I could see Mike agreed, which didn’t surprise me one bit. ‘You need to phone John,’ he said, his jaw set.

      ‘I will,’ I said, ‘but, you know, Darby won’t even know she’s done anything wrong, will she? It’s not like it’s her fault. She’s only acting out what she knows.’

      ‘I’m already aware of that,’ Mike snapped. And I understood his annoyance, too. We had been here before, sadly. More than once. No, there was no harm done. But there were limits to how much we should expect to have to deal with. Again, that sense of evil visiting us was strong in me. ‘Sorry, love,’ Mike said immediately. ‘But I’m afraid we’re not guinea pigs. Casey, abused children can’t just come here and carry on with our kids and grandchildren. It’s not right!’

      Mike had a very good point. As did Riley. None of this was Darby’s fault